


In Which God is Bad at Fractions and Soul Mates Aren't Always Strictly Two Halves of a Whole

by TGP



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And then it's fluff, Angst, But they get better, Death, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Resolution, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TGP/pseuds/TGP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have always been closer than they should be. Hunting together doesn't change that. And neither does Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which God is Bad at Fractions and Soul Mates Aren't Always Strictly Two Halves of a Whole

**Author's Note:**

> Compliant up to the end of Season 5, then off at an angle.

The first time, Sam is sixteen and angry and making a point. The fact that it's wrong doesn't make it through his rage, not even when Dean tells him so. That just makes it worse. He hates Dean telling him what to do, pretending Sam's too young and too immature and too _everything_. He hates that Dean's probably right, but Sam just shoves him back down into the chair and snarls in his face, and Dean is too piss drunk to risk hurting him by throwing him off. He shoves ineffectually at Sam's shoulder, barks at him to quit playing, and then Sam shoves his hand down Dean's pants.

 

After he sobers up, it takes Dean two weeks before he can look Sam in the eye and that’s only after he comes back from a day trip to who the hell knows where. It takes longer for Sam to stop feeling guilty. He doesn't even know what he was thinking, why he did it. He doesn't figure it out.

 

The second time, Sam is desperate. He's shaking from the after effects of terror, adrenaline coursing strong and true through his body, and he has to work it out somehow. Sam doesn't think, just presses himself against Dean's body and lets the warmth soak into him, lets Dean's scent choke out everything else because Dean has always meant safety to him. Dean drops comforts and jokes in the same breath, an uneasy laugh echoing in Sam’s ear as he runs his hands down Sam’s back. When Sam’s fingers slide under Dean’s shirt, there’s a moment when Dean is absolutely silent and still. And then Sam whispers “ _please_ ” into his shoulder and Dean lets him take what he needs.

 

They don’t talk about it and Sam tries to ignore the knot of guilt that throbs anew in his gut because he knows, without a doubt, that Dean will do anything for him whether he wants to or not. He’s not really surprised that Dean finds a hot date the next night.

 

The third time is a year after Sam leaves for Stanford. Dean comes to visit. They fight. They drink. Sam wakes up alone. His memory of the night is a blackout but he’s known the sensation of dried semen on his skin since he was a teenager, and he’s more concerned with his first hangover and how to keep his classmates from noticing the bites along his shoulders.

 

Sam tries not to think about it. He goes through school, falls for a fantastic girl, and figures it must have been some fucked up Winchester right of passage.

 

The fourth time, Sam isn’t in his right mind. He doesn’t care what he’s doing or why and the reason it happens is that it’s the only way Dean can figure out how to get him focused. He’s got Sam up against the wall, pressed so tight that Sam can barely breathe, much less continue destroying everything in his path. Sam beats on him but Dean doesn’t let him go and then the frustration breaks and all Sam can do is cling to him and cry. He bites into Dean’s shoulder to silence himself, scratches his nails up Dean’s back, and then he’s grabbing handfuls of Dean’s hair to drag up his head. Dean doesn’t fight when Sam claims his mouth. He doesn’t push Sam’s desperate hands away as they divest both of them of clothing. Dean lets Sam use him to purge through his grief at least for a little while.

 

What’s left of Jessica is buried the next day.

 

The next time is different. Dean is just as needful as Sam is. They’re holed up in a hotel room and their father has been dead for a month. This time, Sam doesn’t have to coax Dean into it, doesn’t have to manipulate, doesn’t have to _beg_. This time, Dean meets his mouth and his hands are rough and claiming because both of them are hurt, both of them are bleeding, and both of them know this is their fault. They take it out on each other and it is vicious and it hurts and in the morning, they tell themselves that they prefer it that way.

 

After that, they stop keeping track of the times they fall into each other’s arms. It happens between cases, lets them relax and forget the world for a little while. It reminds them that they’re both still alive. It’s still not a thing they talk about because they are brothers first and whatever else last. Their dynamic remains unchanged. They annoy the crap out of each other. They fight and kill for each other.

 

The last time before Dean goes to Hell is the first time Sam actively commits every moment to memory. He knows it won’t happen again. He knows he’s going to lose his brother and there is nothing he can do about it. All he can do is remember the way Dean’s voice catches, the way he gasps, the way his body leans into every touch. The way he groans Sam’s name in his ear. He wants to make it last until the end of the world because he can’t imagine a world without Dean in it. The very idea of going on without him just makes Sam more desperate.

 

And then Dean is dead.

 

And then Dean is alive.

 

And then there’s the angel.

 

It never bothered Sam before when Dean slept with other people or vice versa. What they have is strange and undefined and not at all monogamous. It’s born more from mutual loneliness than anything else. He’s not in love with Dean and Dean is not in love with him, as much as they do love each other. Sam still hopes that someday they might heal enough to find happiness. Find wives, build lives for themselves. _Something_.

 

He’s not expecting the jealousy of watching Dean and Castiel dance around one another. There’s no denying what’s going on. Sam didn’t believe in love at first sight before. He does now. And he hates it.

 

He hates that sometimes Castiel catches his eye, like he _knows_ , but he never mentions it. It’s not until they’re in heaven that Sam figures everything out and it’s all Ash’s fault. Dean doesn’t get it and Sam wishes he didn’t because when they’re back on real ground again and Sam has to watch Dean and Castiel moon at each other, he feels physically sick. He’d rather soulmates didn’t exist than watch his brother fall all over himself for someone else.

 

Sam hadn’t cared before because Dean was incapable of forming lasting relationships with other people. He cares now because he’s terrified that isn’t true anymore. He’s terrified Dean will wake up one day and not need him anymore. It takes everything in him not to say something because that’s not what they have and he is not going to hold Dean back. Instead, he pushes away and makes mistakes and then starts the Apocalypse because that is definitely the healthiest way to express his displeasure.

 

When Castiel is more human than angel, Sam and Dean sit on the hood of the Impala and Dean talks about what they’ll do after they defeat Lucifer like it’s an attainable goal. He talks about the shop he’ll open and the house he’ll have, about Sam going back to law, and then he pauses like there’s something in the back of his throat that he can’t quite get out. Sam has a shred of pity. He tells Dean that he’ll have his hands full showing Castiel how to service an engine and teases about his snoring. in that moment, Dean looks at him and there is no block between them. The bravado is gone. Dean’s face is awash with a mix of shame, guilty hope, and desperate need. He asks if Sam will help him teach Castiel the ropes but Sam knows what he really means. He can’t answer.

 

In the end, Sam doesn’t exactly die so much as condemn himself to not really existing anymore, as far as the world is concerned. He knows how this is going to play out. He knows he’ll be gone. So Sam does the worst thing he can do. He tells Dean to go to Lisa because Lisa is the only woman he’s ever seen Dean grow attached to and he cannot stand the idea that Dean might choose Castiel instead.

 

Later, he stares back at Dean, takes in the blood and the damage he and Lucifer caused, and he regrets because in that moment, all Sam wants is for Dean to be happy. But it’s all ruined now. Castiel is dead, even Bobby, too. There’s no one left to keep Dean going and Sam is terrified that Dean will listen. That Dean will go to Lisa and live on miserably because Sam knows it won’t work.

 

There’s nothing Sam can do. There’s no fixing this. He wishes Castiel had lived. He wishes he’d given Dean his blessing. He wishes he hadn’t messed everything up that he possibly could have. Sam goes into the cage knowing he has failed Dean in ways he will never, ever be able to atone for. He’s almost glad to know he’ll feel nothing but torment for the rest of time.

 

Sam tries not to regret. He doesn’t manage until his soul is so flayed open that he no longer thinks. By then, he’s past remembering why he would have in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

Today, Dean takes Ben to a football game. They eat terrible hot dogs, yell at the players, and spend the trip home singing Iron Maiden songs at the top of their lungs. For a little while, he feels good.

 

Dean’s life is the space between good feelings. They don’t happen much. He tries to cherish them when they do, but at night, when he’s laying in bed staring at the ceiling, all he can think about is that he could end this anytime. It’s the thought that gets him up on his feet again and then he spends the rest of the night watching infomercials.

 

He wants to die. With everything in him, every bit of his make up, he wants to die. It eats away inside him, errodes his control, but Dean won’t do it. He can’t do it. He promised. He wishes to Hell he hadn’t, but that is neither here nor there. Dean can’t go back on the promise. He won’t tarnish Sam’s memory that way.

 

But it’s Sam’s memory that haunts him. Sometimes, Dean thinks he hears Sam in a crowd or sees the back of his head, and even though he knows it’s stupid, he always runs to check. The disappointment hurts just as much every single time. Sometimes, he wakes up and gets confused about why Sam is so much smaller next to him. The disorientation never lasts more than a second or two and then he’s staring at Lisa as bile rises in his throat.

 

Lisa doesn’t ask about his nightmares or his idiosyncrasies. She doesn’t push, doesn’t prod, doesn’t ask more from him than he can give. It took two months before she began making any plans more than a few days in advance, but now they’ve figured out the holidays and they’re putting back money for presents, and Dean’s taken out health insurance for the first time in his life. It’s not in his real name, of course, but right now he’s using only one for everything, like a normal guy.

 

He’s trying. He’s trying so goddamn hard.

 

It’s been six months since Sam- since he lost Sam. Dean barely sleeps. He drinks too much. He works construction so that he’s too tired to think. His latest physical is full of warnings about fatigue and potential heart failure, cirrhosis of the liver and taking it easy on his joints. His cholesterol is too high and he’s been dropping weight. The doctor tells him to take a vacation. Dean smiles, nods, and plans nothing of the sort. When he gets home, he hangs up his keys near the door and starts to say something, but there’s someone in the kitchen with Lisa.

 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel looks no different than he did before. His gaze still pierces right into him, right into the empty pit inside. Dean doesn’t know how to feel. He answers back on automatic as Lisa excuses herself, pausing only to give Dean’s shoulder a squeeze. Castiel watches her go before his eyes snap back onto Dean. “You don’t look well.”

 

“Shit, Cas, nice to see you, too.” He doesn’t know why that stings. Instead of trying to figure out the fuck ups that masquerade as his emotions, Dean just goes to fetch a bottle from the fridge and rips the cap off. “The heck do you want?”

 

Castiel says nothing at first, staring at Dean as if he can see all the way inside him. Like he can read the rot that’s filled Dean up in place of his guts. That used to make Dean nervous. Now it just annoys him.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

 

Dean jerks around to face him with an anger that comes on too sudden to control, even if he wanted to. “Don’t you start that. Don’t you dare. What do you want from me, Cas? What new threat to humanity’s come up that you’d come to _me_ for? Hell knows that’s the only reason you ever would.”

 

If Castiel’s hurt, he doesn’t show it. His expression is steady and somber and that just makes Dean angrier. He wants to snarl and scream at him, wants to shock that look off Castiel’s face, maybe with his fists. “ _Where were you?_ ”

 

“The world does not revolve around you,” Castiel tells him plainly, slow and patient like Dean’s a small and particularly stupid child. “I’ve had other duties.”

 

Ha. Oh, that’s rich. “Right. Sure. Whatever. Get out.”

 

There. Castiel’s brows furrow tighter, lips pursing. Everything changes in that moment and suddenly Dean feels embarrassed for overreacting, for throwing his frustration at a person who doesn’t deserve it, never really has, but Dean is _drowning_. Dean is empty and hurting and he can’t do this. He can’t do this anymore.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel murmurs barely loud enough to hear. He reaches out, hesitating a moment before taking Dean’s shoulder with a firm squeeze.

 

“I needed you,” Dean hisses out because there’s no holding back now, not when Castiel is here and looking at him like this, like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. It’s too little, too damn late. “I needed _something_ and you just- Look, either you stick around or you get the hell away from me, okay? Because I’m not getting jerked around-”

 

“It was not my intention hurt you.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Castiel’s fingers tighten on his shoulder and the way he murmurs Dean’s name is so very soft. His anger disappears. In its wake is only a devastating emptiness. Dean wants to crumble into pieces. He wants to just lay down and never get up again. Six months ago, he’d had a brother, a life, a purpose, and he’d thought maybe, _maybe_ , he’d had something more than a best friend, but then everything was gone.

 

“I’ve been busy,” Castiel murmurs but before Dean can snap at him again, he adds, “I’ve been trying to find a way to save Sam.”

 

Dean jerks as if he’s been shot. His chest goes tight and achy at the very thought because he knows- he _knows_ that Sam can’t be saved. They knew it when they came up with that stupid, worthless plan.

 

“I thought you said the world didn’t revolve around me.” Dean feels choked and his voice rasps from how tight his throat has gone.

 

“It doesn’t,” Castiel confirms in a dryer tone. Then he steps closer, tilting his head to catch Dean’s eyes. “But sometimes, mine _does_.”

 

Dean doesn’t know how to take that. His mouth goes dry and his thoughts come to a screeching halt. Castiel’s gaze remains steady, piercing him as deeply as ever. He’s never been able to put a name to what’s between them but right now he desperately wants to. He wants to quantify it, justify it, make it something steady and true so that it can’t be taken away from him. And he is just as terrified to actually do it.

 

“You talk a good game.” It’s all Dean can manage and it is so very shitty, but Castiel only nods without understanding what he really means. “Okay. I’ll bite. How do we get Sam back?”

 

* * *

 

 

Long before the cage, before the apocalypse, before Lucifer became worries for him, Castiel had been presented with the problems of Sam and Dean Winchester. They were not problems he’d wanted but he’d never been able to let well enough alone. The Winchesters led him down a path of ruin that he still walks even now that he is free not to.

 

The thing is, Castiel cannot give up the Winchesters. They have damaged him, carving out a place inside his head and settling themselves there. Castiel will ever be rid of them and he finds, as the days go on, he doesn’t want to. As Uriel had once said, Castiel likes the Winchesters. There is little in the world that he truly, visceral enjoys as much as their company.

 

He has not enjoyed the last year. He did not enjoy the knowledge of Sam’s torture or Dean’s downward spiral. He did not enjoy the chaos in his home or the maneuvering through the political power plays that seem to have taken up every sentient mind in Heaven. Castiel cares little about the affairs of his brothers, even as he grieves for them. He knows God brought him back for a reason, likely just the one he fears, but he can’t dedicate himself fully to Heaven until he has repaired the brokenness of the Winchesters.

 

He hopes his father will understand that.

 

He and Dean work late into each day looking for the information they need, calling every favor they have, both mundane and not. It is exhausting work and as Castiel watches Dean fall asleep wherever he’s lying, he wonders if he should have continued this alone. His thoughts are always at odds when it comes to Dean. Once, Castiel had tried to dismiss that. Now he has simply accepted as given.

  
There are times, however, that Castiel finds himself caught, enthralled, and he is no closer to understanding that than he was the first time it happened.

 

It takes them half a year to find the last piece of their puzzle. That’s when Death visits, waiting for Castiel as Dean sleeps. He has no pity for their situation but when Castiel asks why he has decided to help, Death only smiles and tells him that Dean will understand.

 

Then he tells him what he needs to know. And the moment Castiel understands it, he knows what he has to do and he knows that Dean cannot, _will no_ t be permitted to involve himself further. The reaction within him is so strong that for several moments, he forgets that his vessel must breathe.

 

Castiel requires a sacrifice. He refuses to allow that to be Dean and he cannot choose another human, either. Dean would never forgive him, regardless of whether Sam was saved. So he knows his path. He knows the method. And he knows exactly who his sacrifice will be. There is only one way to keep Dean from realizing anything. Castiel leaves as he’s sleeping and does not regret.

 

The actual ritual is painfully simple, for all the trouble an apocalypse could, and did, bring. He runs through it without a thought, lets not the shaking of the earth nor the screaming of damned souls slow him. He can feel the bars of the cage against his skin, the harsh breath of laughter along his throat. He can hear his brothers’ voices, hear the screams of two vessels that ceased being human long ago. The cage shoves oppressively around him, a physical manifestation of a horror Castiel can barely conceptualize.

 

He raises his blade.

 

A hand grips his own and Castiel stares down the half manifested face of Michael’s vessel. The boy’s lips peel back in a grim smile as he twists Castiel’s hand, changing the angle. He says nothing as he plunges the blade into his own chest, his crazed eyes locked on Castiel’s face. It happens too quickly to stop, too quickly to even react, and then the vessel begins to collapse against him even as Adam disintegrates into the whirling presence spinning tight and harsh around Castiel’s body.

 

He screams, throws out his hand. Claws dig deep rivets down his arm and into his body, but as Adam’s eyes fade into nothing, long fingers grip his own. Castiel doesn’t hesitated. He yanks with every ounce of power he has and that’s when the risen energy peaks and _inverts_.

 

Castiel jerks his eyes open to the sound of screaming. His body, his very soul aches so deeply that he can barely move. Turning his head, he looks upon the thrashing, tormented form of Sam Winchester. Sam twists and cries, his fingers digging into his skin and tearing at his hair. He moves like a wild, mindless thing. Twisting himself onto his knees, Castiel bullies his body into getting closer. He reaches out and Sam bites down on his arm, ripping flesh from his limb before Castiel can grab onto his face, press his fingers to Sam’s forehead. He barely summons up the energy to knock him out.

 

Sam lays so very still, half collapsed against him. His body shows only self inflicted wounds, new and light. As Castiel looks past the physical, looks into the soul he’s ripped free…

 

He should be disgusted by the ragged, twisted thing inside Sam. Instead, he feels a great, terrible shame that he let this happen. He thinks about sparing Dean the sight of a Sam that is not Sam any longer, putting him out of his misery, sending him along to Heaven the same way Michael’s vessel had sent himself. There would be no pain there. No suffering. Sam would heal and Dean…

 

Dean would be dead in a week and Castiel cannot allow that.

 

There are only so many ways to heal an eviscerated soul. Castiel painstakingly employs every single one. He doesn’t know how long it takes. He doesn’t care. The moment Sam finally looks at him and recognizes him past the haze of pain and torment, Castiel knows it was worth it.

 

Sam is still not fully cognizant when Castiel tracks Dean down to a motel room in Nebraska. Dean’s been traveling the country looking for them, following any whisper he can like a possessed man. He punches Castiel in the face the moment he sees him, snarls at him and yells. And then he sees Sam and…

 

The look on his face…

 

Castiel’s chest becomes a vice as he’s overwhelmed with feelings he cannot name and cannot stop. He watches helplessly as Dean sweeps Sam into his arms, follows the tears roll down Dean’s cheeks, and flinches as Sam’s name comes dragged from Dean’s mouth hoarse and pained. Castiel looks away.

 

His duty to them is done. He’s paid his debt. There is nothing, _nothing_ he can ask of them now. When his gaze raises back to them, Sam’s fingers are clenched tight in Dean’s hair in a desperate grip for anchoring as Dean presses his mouth and body to Sam’s.

 

Castiel doesn’t expect the sight to both pain him and feel utterly right. He finds himself stepping back, putting physical distance between them because he…

 

He…

 

It’s clenched up in him, his vessel’s insides rebelling because Castiel feels and does so with such abandon that he cannot hope to contain it. He can’t breathe as the strength of his own realizations bear down upon him.

 

The Winchesters have damned him and Castiel would never change that, but he cannot stay.

 

Sam barks out his name and Castiel jerks his head up, the spiraling energy he’d been gathering to leave dispersing as if he’d been struck and then Sam has hold of his arm to drag him back-

 

Back to _them_ -

 

And Dean’s eyes are so wide, uncertain and so ready to be abandoned even then-

 

And then Sam is kissing him and Dean’s fingers tangle in the back of his coat to lock him in place-

 

And Dean’s mouth is so very hot on his own, stiflingly-

 

And he-

 

He-

 

Castiel breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more, not sure when, but there will be another chapter of how they fall into place.
> 
> Edit: Nevermind, looks like continuation is never happening but it's not too bad a place to end here anyway.


End file.
